


Narrow Escape

by orphan_account



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Misunderstandings, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:26:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3479468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a brief prompt on tumblr. </p><p>Merasmus is getting a lot of practice at his talking his way out of strange situations. His teleporting ability is unpredictable at best, and not everybody is cooperative when a wizard suddenly appears. </p><p>Especially not Teufort citizens.</p><p>- - -</p><p>"My name is Mer-as-mus." He enunciates each syllable, drawing it out in a sharp nasal tone dripping with contempt. He's one ounce of patience away from simply immobilizing them all and trying to teleport right back out again, but he doesn't have his spell book with him (this whole adventure, in fact, was the result of an attempt gone wrong, intended to transport him to his study in the attic). Besides, he knows from years and years and years of experience that an incorrectly memorized spell is a recipe for disaster.</p><p>As an afterthought: "I don't care whose eyes were glowing what color!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narrow Escape

Everything in Teufort is strange. The nurseries, the orphanages, the middle schools, the senior centers -- all touched by the bizarre, farcical whimsy that fuels the entire town. Preschools offer fighting classes on Saturday afternoons. Churches promise foolproof exorcisms for $20. The local water bottling plant promises water with a fresh metallic taste, on sale today only.

The members of Team Fortress Industries, of course, have realized long ago that one of those oddities is the reason for all the others.

But Merasmus has not been informed, and he's currently trapped in a situation he _cannot_ argue his way out of. Everyone is too blindly diligent, secure in their firm belief of their correctness, and it's very hard to explain to a crew of nursing home staff that he is a _wizard,_ not a senior citizen. He looks this way _on purpose_ , as wizards do. After all, when one's lived for several centuries, age begins to lose its meaning.

Pauling has done him the favor of procuring a false ID, listing his age as sixty (only a few orders of magnitude away from the real answer) and featuring his portrait, stern-faced and glum, bushy brows drawn together in a scowl. Black balaclava pulled down over his forehead and the old battered skull perched precariously atop his cranium, he's dressed in the photo to the hilt of impoverished wizardry. This, in and of itself, should be sufficient to procure his release, but alas, Teufort Senior Care staff will not believe him.

It doesn't help that their minimum age of admittance to the home is fifty.

"But can any of your residents do _this?!"_ He snaps at the nearest nurse, summoning a flicker of lime-colored fire in his open palm that dances between bony fingertips and finds its mirror in the luminous green glow of his eyes.

"Yes, of course." She is unimpressed, and tucks a pencil behind her ear. "You aren't special, Mr. Asmus. Gertrude's eyes were glowing red the other day."

"My name is _Mer-as-mus_." He enunciates each syllable, drawing it out in a sharp nasal tone dripping with contempt. He's one ounce of patience away from simply immobilizing them all and trying to teleport right back out again, but he doesn't have his spell book with him (this whole adventure, in fact, was the result of an attempt gone wrong, intended to transport him to his study in the attic). Besides, he knows from years and years and _years_ of experience that an incorrectly memorized spell is a recipe for disaster.

As an afterthought: "I don't care whose eyes were glowing _what_ color! You _will_ let me go, _right now._ " The unfortunate wizard turns officious, drawing himself up to his full height. He's slender and tall, but hardly imposing, especially when dressed in a fluffy pink bathrobe and slippers, as he is now. He snaps his fingers, but to no effect, and then tries again. "I'm an affiliate of Team Fortress Industries. I'm needed for some _very_ important business."

This, rather than any spell, seems to be the right sequence of magic words. The nurse almost drops her clipboard in haste, escorting Merasmus directly towards the door and holding it open for him as he floats through the exit without a second thought. Rather than doubting the twists of fate that favor him, Merasmus accepts them all without question. "Thank you, thank you. It's about _time_ you idiots listened."

\- - -

Later, when he's safely situated back on the sofa with Jane's arms wrapped tight around his bony midsection, Merasmus deigns to address the issue.

"A curious thing happened earlier."

Jane's eyes light up; he's always keen to hear a story. He leans forward, practically crushing Merasmus's ribs in the process of drawing him closer. "Yes?"

"Don't pulverize me, you brute." He hisses through thin lips, but tempers the harshness of his remark with a hand stroked down the side of Jane's cheek, rubbing his stubbly jaw. "Well, I accidentally teleported into the nursing home."

"Oh, I visited there last month! I brought my army to see them for Raccoon Awareness Day. I read an article in the newspaper about therapy animals and thought it was a good idea."

"You _would_." Merasmus groans. There's really no correct response to that. "Regardless, I mentioned TF Industries and they let me go immediately. It was remarkable. I've never seen such compliance without the prior application of a spell."

"That _is_ strange." Jane scratches his head, lower lip formed into a pout as he puzzles over the situation. There's an answer to this, he just knows it, but what could it be? Maybe it's an enigma. "I wonder if it has anything to do with Miss Pauling hypnotizing them?"

"What? Of _course_ it does, you nitwit!" Merasmus cranes his neck to glare, green eyes lighting up with frustration. No one ever tells him anything, much less the things that _matter_. A two-hour primer on Scout's baseball card collection, yes. Vital information such as this, no. "When did this happen?"

"Before you got here." Jane squints, trying to recall. "I think it was last year."

"So I've been spellcasting my way out of predicaments for nothing?"

"Probably!" But Jane grins, and runs short thick fingers through Merasmus's black hair, ruffling up the soft strands and ignoring the hissed curse he receives for it. His usual stupid grin is back in place, almost counteracting the effects of Merasmus's moody scowl. "Don't worry. It's good practice, cupcake."

Merasmus sulks, relaxing back into the rough canvas of Jane's jacket. Despite his sour mood, a tiny hint of a smile tugs upward at one corner of his thin mouth. "I suppose."


End file.
